Roi Fainéant
by Januarysixth
Summary: The gypsies thought the death of Claude Frollo would bring an end to their persecution. But when Clopin is captured and forced into servitude, how will he escape from his new employers? What's keeping him from leaving?
1. The Departure

**Disclaimer**: Disney belongs to Disney. Everything that's not Disney belongs to me or was influenced by someone else.

**Author's Note**: This will be my first Clopin-centric fanfic. And my first fanfic since middle school so I'm hoping I wont disappoint. Concerning the setting and all that jazz, I will (sort of) attempt to be historically accurate. But since the movie is ridiculously fictitious, I don't think the few people reading will mind too much. With that said if you'd like to comment with some interesting historical facts, go for it! My story takes place a less than a year after the first movie.

**Rating**: Rated "T" for possible gore and non-explicit adult themes.

**P.S.** Should you find any spelling mistakes or super awkward sentence structures, I'd really appreciate it if you let me know. I don't want people to think I'm sloppy.

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**Chapter One: "**The Departure**"**

"Clopin! Clopin! Tell us a story." Children began gathering around a certain gypsy's wagon. The mark of a typical morning in the crowded streets of Paris.

"One with dragons!" Chimed a boy, flailing around an invisible sword.

"Or romance," sighed a girl.

All the little ones were chattering excitedly, piping up with their own suggestions and preferences for a story. The gypsy laughed. He adored the enthusiasm of children. "You children look like you could use a boost in moral standing. So for this morning I shall recite a dramatic reading of psalms 7:6 through 42:4…" Clopin suggested, before glancing expectantly at his cringing audience.

When suddenly his little puppet friend popped up and made a disapproving flatulence noise withits mouth. The children laughed as Clopin was taken aback by the puppet's interjection. Regardless, he seemed to have a sudden change of heart.

"My little friend makes a valid point! That wont do. But, I've got a story that's bound to please. Have any of you heard of the princess that never smiled?" The children began to settle down as they looked to each other in curious silence. "No? Well, then lend me your ears and Clopin will tell you her tale.

"There once lived a princess who had everything, and yet nothing. She was a princess so sad, she never smiled once in her life," the gypsy began somberly. He began explaining how distraught her father, the king, was and how he tried everything to make her happy. But oh, how she appeared bored and indifferent to every gift and spectacle put before her! After sixteen years of frowning the king could take no more of her melancholy, so he generously offered his kingdom and his daughter's hand to anyone that would make his impossible daughter laugh.

The story was a hit with the kids. To stress any particular funny or dramatic part of the story, the gypsy king would break out into a rhyming song, use silly looking puppets, and change back drops. Though with energy like Clopin's, he could probably trim off all the frills and recite multplication tables to King Charles and still be called back again for another performance.

"Hundreds of suitors tried and failed to amuse the princess. Then one day a poor and clumsy fool with absolutely no intention of wooing her, tripped which somehow lead to a catastrophic domino effect of damage. Buildings collapsed onto buildings and soon an entire town was in ruin! The princess and the king had witnessed the whole mess occur. And right before the king was to order the poor fool to death for destroying part of his kingdom, his daughter _cracked_. And all the townsmen ceased to run around like headless chickens to stand agape at their once stiff and humourless princess as she now writhed on the ground in uninhibited, hysterical laughter. Her father (forgetting the mass wreckage) was overjoyed and, allowing no exceptions, declared this fool to be the new king. Problem was, the fool was in love with another-"

"_Ahem_."

Clopin was on a roll. He had every child watching dangling on a string of suspense. But his roll came to an unfortunate halt when suddenly a very pregnant gypsy approached the wagon. Her arms were folded and her eyebrow cocked.

"-Well! If it isn't the ever lovely mother-to-be Esmeralda! To what do we owe the interruption?" Normally Clopin would have ignored her rather than stopping in the middle of a story. But, judging by her expression this seemed important. He was still just a teensy bit annoyed though, he happened to like this story.

Esmeralda smiled. "The caravan?"

Clopin gasped. "That was today? Oopsie... I better go." He looked apologetically to his audience. They gave a dejected 'aww' as he began to pack up. "No worries children. I'll be back in a few weeks and we can finish the story then. Now scoot. And off I go! Thank yooou," he called back to Esmeralda as he was already halfway down the street.

Every few months the gypsy "king" leads a caravan of merchants around to the smaller villages surrounding Paris. Though it can be dangerous, the villagers and their local noblemen are surprisingly generous buyers and the trade is excellent. Not to mention it was super fun. These places hardly ever get any skilled merchants or performers passing through, so most of the bored villagers are very grateful for the energy and excitement the gypsies bring. Especially the young female villagers, in which Clopin is more than happy to oblige his servies.

After the gypsy took one last trip to the Court of Miracles and gathered his necessary belongings, he was soon ready to go and approached the caravan. Upon exiting and entering Paris, the gypsies usually disguise themselves as hooded monks transporting copies of the Bible to less fortunate villages. This genius plan of Clopin's has allowed the caravan to safely come and go from the city for almost a year now. Since the death of Judge Claude Frollo, every expedition has gone more smoothly than the last. Though some people were still troubled.

As Clopin was throwing on his monk robe, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Esmeralda. She usually came along on the caravan, but given her current condition, she decided it was best to stay behind this time. Now she was just there to see them off. Yet she looked troubled.

The gypsy king scratched his beard. "You look concerned.. Don't tell me! There's something on your mind," he observed slyly.

"We're getting reckless. I know things have finally started becoming a little easier for us, but I don't believe this is the end. You haven't prepared enough this time, what if-"

"Esmeralda, please." He raised up his hand to silence her. Though she always had her heart in the right place, he felt that her newfound motherly instincts have made her paranoid and antsy. Although, it is true he packed less weapons in order to make more room for trade goods. "I understand what you're saying, completely. I do! But, making such accusations, _tsk tsk_. Don't you think the safety of our people is important to me?"

"Of course, but-"

"Would I venture out if I thought we were unprepared? It _is_ my neck out there too."

"I know, just-"

"I work hard making all the preparations, yet I'm still getting the impression that you don't trust me. And it hurts my feelings so," he said dramatically.

Esmeralda looked at him for a moment before heaving a sigh, signaling her defeat. "I trust you."

"Then you have absolutely nothing to worry about!" He gave an assuring smile. "And now it's time to hit the trails. Give my regards to the captain and, aha! To your little bun in the oven," he gave a wink before his face was concealed by his monkly hood. And soon, the caravan was rolling on out of the city and onwards South.

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**A/N**: Personally, I feel this chapter a tad boring. But I'm not sure how to spice it up without making it too long or completely rewriting it. What do you think? I only hope you can forgive me and keep reading, because it does get more exciting (at least I think so).

Feedback is MUCH appreciated. If there's anything you liked, didn't like, loved, hated, let me know!

**P.S.**Esmeralda is pregnant with Zephyr, her son with Phoebus in the second movie. Not that I really like the sequal (it's traaaaash), I'm just trying to be true to the movieverse.


	2. The Village Eze

**A/N: **Pronounced 'ease'. Or at least I'd like it to be. I tried googling names of French medieval villages, but I kept getting websites to ritsy summer homes. It was the best I could find.

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**Chapter Two: "**The Village Eze**"**

The caravan left Paris with little to no resistance. It wasn't long before they were far enough away from the city that they could discard their ungainly monk robes and show their true colors. Vibrant flags were attached to the wagons and music was played. Since they didn't own enough horses, the few they owned pulled the carts. And since the carts were stocked full with all of their goods, everyone had to walk. However no one really seemed to mind much. As they played music, they would dance and sing and swap stories to pass the time and to distract themselves if their feet got sore. True they were being a little elaborate, but potential customers were more likely to buy from them if they seemed jovial and fun-loving.

Their first stop was the village Eze, south of Paris. They reached it right around dusk. The village was a humble one, but the gypsies were well received. Though some of the villagers shut their windows and locked the doors, many of them were eager to see the exotic goods and spices the gypsies had to offer. They set up camp right outside the local tavern, on the border of the village. Since it was already nighttime, they decided to save most of their business and trading until morning. So in the mean time, they drank.

And drank they did. Much merriment was made in the tavern that night. Lots of singing and dancing and laughter. One gypsy, Nadia, a large yet graceful woman hopped up onto a table and entranced the crowd with a tambourine and dance. Several others gallivanted around the room, while the rest were sharing spirits at the tables laughing and whatnot. At one point Clopin had a couple female-folk sitting on his lap (one of which was affectionately wearing his hat), completely captivated by the gypsy king's story of how he fought off six city guards, on top of a speeding carriage over a rapidly collapsing bridge a hundred feet above jagged rocks and certain death (the carriage was on fire). With his hands tied behind his back. Too drunk to be bothered remembering what actually happened (or if that was even him), he improvised ever-so-slightly. Regardless everyone at the table listened like it was the gospel truth.

The only thing that dampened the mood in the tavern was a bewildered old crone, who whispered to herself as she witnessed the merrymaking. She kept a fist of rosary close to her heart as she went around the room incoherantly muttering things like "filthy sinners", "abominations", and "burning hellfire". She seemed harmless enough. However after she started throwing holywater at gypsies to see if its sacred properties would scald their flesh, the innkeeper kindly escorted her off the premises early on in the night. Feeling justified in the fact that she would surely bring down his income if she kept trying to purge the tavern of sin all night.

Midnight rolled around. Since the gypsies still had miles to go and many villages to see they said goodnight to the people of Eze and buckled down early, most of them staggered back to their tents to rest their drunken heads. No one was assigned to stand guard that night (actually, before the alcohol dragged him down to his bed, Clopin vaguely pointed to broom that 'greatly' resembled a gypsy comrade and mumbled an order for _it _to stand guard). Content and well fed like little bugs and a rug, the gypsies fell fast asleep, excited for the exploits the morning would bring.

There was a scream. It was a rude awakening. Before he was even fully aware, Clopin stuck his head outside his tent. Through the dim red light of dawn he saw, to his horror, soldiers ravaging the caravan. There was a struggle, but none of the gypsies were prepared for such an unexpected and brutal attack. Many of them grabbed whatever they could to fight them off, some even tried fleeing. In the end several were killed. Clopin was one of the last standing, but soon he too was struck down and received a heavy blow to the head. He saw the ground rush up to meet his face, but was unconscious before they met.

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**A/N**: This chapter was rushed as you might be able to tell. And it's true. I'm trying to rush to the good stuff, I just hope it doesn't turn you guys off. I'm trying to throw in a teeny bit of humor in and there, but is it enough? Should I focus on being more entertaining? I'd hate for you to think the story is dry and unengaging.

As always, feedback mucho appreciated. Tell me true, do you think I rushed it? Or is it okay?


	3. The Capture

**A/N**: 'Roi Fainéant' means 'do nothing king'. What the French called their king if they thought he was useless, especially during the Merovingian and Carolingian dynasties. Also the bagne of Toulon was a prison in southern France.

**Update 10/9**: After reading over the chapters again, I noticed that they're VERY messy and need a lot of improvement. So I'm going to rearrange some stuff, get rid of repeated words, and totes fix some of that weird sentence structuring. Hopefully it'll look a lot cleaner before chapter 4 comes out. waaaaaa it's hard to proofread when you haven't a normal nights rest in a week D: imma not a sloooobbbbbbb i sweaaaarrrrrrzzzzzzz

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**Chapter Three: "**The Capture**"**

Clopin awoke with a lump on his head and a knot in his heart. Even with his head heavy and spinning, it was hard to ignore the guilt that wormed its way into his gut. If only he advised everybody not to drink so much. If only they had been a little more inconspicuous. If only he had stood guard that night. And now some of his closest friends paid dearly for his poor judgments. Yet how did the guards get there so fast? Little did he know, upon being expelled from the tavern the righteous old crone got the village messenger to immediately ride out for Paris to inform the guards of their rowdy gypsy intruders. They responded very quickly, arrived at sunrise and... Well that's all done now, anyway.

It took a minute or so after waking up for the stars to disappear and for Clopin to become orientated again. The first thing he noticed was his head wasn't bopping around because he was dizzy, he was moving. Looking up he saw he was in an iron cage on a cart. He shared this prison with several other ruffian looking men, but none of which were his comrades from the caravan. Resting his head back against the bars he rubbed the place where he was was struck. It stung immensely. When he retracted his hand he noticed the blood on his fingertips.

Another few moments were needed until he had the mobility to speak. He turned to the man nearest to him. The years were definitely unkind to his face indeed, seeming as though it got rearranged for him time and time again. "I was taken from a caravan of gypsies, do you know where they are?" he asked his cell mate.

The man looked to him and wheezed slightly before answering. "Gone." He wheezed and coughed in such a way that Clopin thought could have been laugher.

"Gone? Such as 'escaped safely from harms way' gone, or 'Gone' as in.. gone?" the gypsy persisted. Sounding concerned and a little agitated from the maimed man's unnecessary elusiveness.

"We're gone too-" his breathing was as mangled as his face. "-brother. We're sent to the bagne of Toulon, gonna row in the galleys. At least you are." He hacked away and grasped his chest. "I'm weak. I will die soon." The disfigured man continued with his chronic, gunky cough.

The galleys, the words echoed in Clopin's thoughts. He's heard horror stories about rowing in the galleys of the French Mediterranean fleet. They say once you get on, it isn't likely you'll see land ever again. The navy promises freedom to those who row strong and then they just wait for the "criminals" row themselves to death. It seems as though even after Judge Frollo's death, the criteria for what constitutes a hard criminal just gets more and more lenient. If being born is a good enough reason to be condemned to a life sentence, then what's a gypsy to do?

Clopin shook his head, desperately pushing the reality from his mind for the moment and pleaded. "Just tell me what happened to my friends."

But he spoke a moment too late. The man next to him had ceased to wheeze in mid breath and grew unnervingly quiet and still. Yikes, when he said soon he _meant _soon. Normally Clopin would feel even a little sorry for the man, but there was only so much the gypsy could feel at once. His head radiated in pain and it hurt even more so when he tried to concentrate. In any case, this wasn't the time to work out any inner turmoil. Clopin rationally decided to cover the basics first. The sun was out, there were two grubby slavers sitting up in the coach, and he could see the cart was headed towards a town. He did not recognize it right away but soon he saw that it was Auxerre, which was fairly South. It wasn't incredibly South, but it was South enough to be alarmed. How long had he been unconscious? He could have sworn he was out for just a few hours, but if he was already at Auxerre he must have been asleep for a day at least.

The cart continued to ride into the village. Eventually the drivers stopped in a busy marketplace to refuel their bellies. A few pieces of stale, unsightly bread were thrown into the cage for the prisoners. The other prisoner's dove for it like starved vultures. Clopin however, remained still as he watched the convicts bite and claw each other for the moldy baguettes. It took several hours before the drivers even considered removing the dead man from the cart. In the mean time Clopin was kept to his own thoughts, wondering how he was just going to survive the trip to the galleys, let alone the ships themselves. But it would never come to that, he decided. A mere cage and shackles cannot hold the likes of Clopin Trouillefou! With some vigor restored, it was easy to keep his brooding shallow, for he needed to pay attention if he were to gain an upper hand. He kept a half-hearted eye out for no one in particular. The gypsy watched people walk by and not notice him, he watched people scoff at him with righteous glares, and he watched as people flat out spit at his very existance. However across the way there was one man that stood out among the bustling rest, for he had been staring for a while. This man was a slick blonde, wore very fine clothing, and had sharp facial features. Needless to say it was slightly uncomfortable the way he stared with such unblinking scrutiny. Normally Clopin would have bounced and jingled his way on over to him and attempted to wow him with an anecdote or two, but this situation was clearly deviated from the norm. They even made eye contact for an extended period of time. The blonde would thoughtfully rub the tip of his chin whilst Clopin would sit there awkwardly, waiting for any glimpse of an explanation. Eventually this man strode casually over to the cart and Clopin perked himself up a bit, curious to see what this man was all about. He spoke to him directly.

"You there, gypsy," he drawled in a smooth, posh sort of voice. "What is your trade?"

It was one of those rare occasions Clopin couldn't seem to find his voice. Maybe he was just stunned that a potential opportunity for escape came so quickly.

"Are you dumb or just useless? Speak up."

However, Clopin was never one to remain speechless for long. He inched closer to the wealthy man. This could be his ticket out of here. "Ah, a true artist has no single trade, sir. I am a performing, multi-talented bohemian and quite an acrobat, if I do say so myself." The man didn't seem interested. "And I'm a carpenter," Clopin added to keep the man from walking away. Desperation began to leak from his voice as he became aware of his fingers wrapped around the iron bars that separated them. "I can also paint. But, anything you require I am a fast learner." All right, so he wasn't so good at painting. But he built and painted his puppet show cart with his own two hands, not to mention he's made countless props and puppets. And he helped build the gallows in the Court of Miracles, so how about that.

The man surveyed the gypsy in silence. Then one of the drivers approached him.

"Theys givin' you a hard time, sir?"

At first the blonde simply ignored the petty slaver. "How much for the gypsy?" he asked as he began to retrieve his coin purse.

The driver uncomfortably scratched the back of his head. "These are criminals of the law, I dun think-"

"Don't be ridiculous, anything can be bought for the right price," insisted the man without even looking up. "Thirty francs. That's at least five times as much as the bounty you'd be originally compensated for, I'm sure." He handed the man his pay, already confident with his purchase. "Taonga, _karibu_." The man seemed to beckon for someone nearby.

The driver's eyes glittered with greed as he accepted the coins. And Clopin couldn't believe his luck. Or at least he hoped this stroke of fate was luck. For it was highly unlikely this man could be worse than the galleys.

As Clopin was being fetched from the cage, the drivers had to prod the other prisoners with rods and whips to keep them from storming out. They were in a bit of a frenzy now, desperately spitting out wild stories of how they performed for the King and designed the palace of Versailles or how they apprenticed under da Vinci. Tried as they might, but these pleas were coolly disregarded by the finely dressed man.

_Karibu _must have meant 'come', because moments after the rich man said it, 'Taonga' arrived.

Taonga wasn't so much a man as he was a giant. The size of his wrist probably rivaled the size of Clopin's entire thigh. His dark skin was not unlike tough black leather or the soil in the ground after a rainfall. Everything about his stature radiated a beastly power. He had a strong chin, a broad noes, and savage eyes as ebony as his skin. Taonga took his place next to his master with his arms crossed, waiting obediently for his next command. Looking impressively so as he did.

"Bind his hands," the blonde said to his manservant as he gestured to his new 'property'.

Without hesitation, Taonga towered over the gypsy (who wasn't terribly tall to begin with) and bound his hands with a rope, and tightly. Not that Clopin would let something like a lack of hands deter him in his escape. He was already prepping himself to book it the moment the oppurtunity presented itself.

"You may try to run away," suggested the man in a passive tone, as if he were reading his mind. "However for your sake I do advise against it. Taonga can get carried away in the heat of a chase. Heathen instincts you know."

"Me! Run away? Preposterous." Clopin exclaimed as he took a glance up at Taonga, who coincidentally had been standing a little too close and glaring unblinkingly at the gypsy. It was actually quite unnerving, as he was sure the scary African could rest the gypsy's head between his forearm and bicep and crush him like a nutcracker would and walnut. He gulped and gave a nervous, humorless laugh. Perhaps it really was in his best interest to actually cooperate. For now. "Why that would be nothing short of suicide, isn't that right my friend? Ahaha..ha.." Clopin nudged the African who in return did not appear very amused.

The three began their walk back to the rich man's carriage. On the way, Clopin's new purchaser briefly explained that his name was Baron Lucien van Amere. He captained a merchant trade ship and owns a modest (but very successful) vineyard. When they got to the carriage, the Baron had Taonga clean up some of the dried blood from gypsy's head wound a bit. Afterwards he instructed Clopin to sit up in the drivers seat with Taonga for theremainder of the journey, which was quite a smart move on that Baron's part. For Clopin was much more disinclined to run away while within arm's reach of the black giant.

It took about an hour from town to ride out to the van Amere chateau. On the way, Clopin couldn't help but notice the river and all the forest they passed. Meaning there are countless hiding places to help him in a successful escape. Hope surged through him as he continuously got the impulse to leap from the carriage and just bolt back to Paris. But, that time was probably not now. Because of the head injury, Clopin was suffering from a bit of vertigo. And under the watchful eye of Taonga the titan, he'll absolutely need to be on his game if he wants to get it right the first time.

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**A/N**: How'd you like chapter 3? I I hope it was entertaining enough to keep you looking out for the next chapter. Because you get to meet the Baron's family in the next chapter and things should start to get more interesting. Also, I'm SORRY if Lucien seems like a Lucius Malfoy impostor. It wasn't until after I created him in my head, named him, and had my heart set on his personality that I realized the blatant similarities. But I do imagine them pretty differently in my head. And aside from being rich, blonde and stylishly snobby they're pretty different. You'll see. Besides, the Malfoys love green and the van Amere's love blue. :D

As always, I looove me some feedback! So if you liked it, loved it, hated it, have constructive suggestions for improvement, let me know. I'd be really interested in what you thought of the characters. Also if you saw any obvious typos or super awkward sentence structures, help a brudda out!


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